Somewhere nestled on the border of New York and Pennsylvania lies Camp Equinunk. It is a sleep-away camp (not sure if there is a dash to separate “sleep” and “away”) that boys can attend as campers from ages 6-15, and then as a counselor from ages 16 to however long as you fucking want.

I attended Equinunk as a camper from age 10 to 13, which were the summers of 1992, 1993, 1994 and 1995. Equinunk served as the setting for many stories already told on the site, such as the infamous tale in “Dr. F and the Women” where a girl slapped me in the face for being ugly, and the Sega Genesis story from “True Stories of Embarrassment.”

A lot of shitty moments happened to me at this place, but I do not hate it. I actually had more good times here than bad, and I can also honestly say that Equinunk was the finest camp that I’ve ever been to...but let’s be honest, shitty moments are funny. You're not reading this article for the good moments in my life, are you? Anyway, I really liked the place and it's also where I made an important discovery about myself.

PRELUDE - THE RETURN OF LUSCHER

This story doesn't take place in camp, but occurred a few months ago. I’m writing about it because it's funny and I can't think of another place to put it. I'll have to return to "True Stories of Embarrassment" for this one. As that article was on the main page of Zubazpants.com, my mom told me about a teacher at her school named Schandler...or Shandler...Chandler?

“Yeah, so can I BE anymore of a JPEG?”

Schandler was a counselor at Equinunk when I was a camper. As a matter of fact, he still works there because he's a teacher and has summers off. He's one of the higher-ups now...at least I hope he is, because being a counselor when you're in your late-20's is kind of sad. Anyway, my mom asked if she could show my story (specifically the Sega Genesis story) to him and I said fine. Schandler ended up loving it. He loved it so much that he asked my mom if he could show it to Luscher.

Uh-oh. For those of you that didn't read the Sega Genesis story, Luscher was the counselor in Equinunk who always picked on me and basically treated me like crap. Not that I blame him. I would pick on me too if I looked like this:

Jesus tap-dancin' Christ, what a mess

Nothing says weiner like a T-shirt that reads "Camp All Sports" tucked into umbro shorts. Let's not overlook the white baseball cap with the bent brim. But I'm going on a tangent and I should get back on track: Schandler and Luscher were good friends then and still are today. Schandler was the best man at Luscher's wedding! Now this evil, evil dude who once literally kicked my ass for taking too long at a water fountain was going to read my story about him! I was kind of nervous. What if Luscher tracked me down, broke into my house, and gave me a wedgie as I was watching Family Guy or some shit? I didn't want that douchebag back in my life!

I was just being paranoid, as usual. Luscher laughed his ass off at the story and loved it as much as Schandler did. He didn't remember me, all praise be to Allah. The story, he said, had a good point - counselors picking on campers can really affect the camper emotionally. That actually wasn't the point of the story. The point was about how I agreed and respected what he did, for I would also pick on geeks like me. Anyway, Luscher asked if he could read my story to the counselors as an example of what not to do to campers. It turned out that Luscher also still worked at Equinunk and was one of the orientation aides at counselor orientation. This guy is teaching counselors about behavior? Sweet Lord! I told my mom (who in turn told Schandler, who in turn told Luscher) that he could use my story, only if he leaves me the hell alone. The good news? I never saw Luscher. The bad news? Now a whole bunch of people know how...lame...I was...

Holy shit.

Something just hit me as I was typing this out. Luscher is reading about how he embarrassed me in front of a whole group of people! Now a new generation of counselors will know that I'm fucking pathetic! It's not a lesson! He lied! He's probably just bragging to them about how he made me look like an ass! HE GOT ME AGAIN! FUCK YOU, LUSCHER! I'LL GET EVEN WITH YOU ONE DAY! Okay, now on with the article.

THE BASICS

The thing about sleep-away camp is that it's much different than day camp. If it's your first summer, you're basically put in a bunk with about five other kids you’ve never met before. There's no guarantee they'll like you, especially if they bunked together the previous summer and now you're moving in on their territory. The counselors are usually okay and they better be. These people will be taking care of your ass 24/7. Each bunk had two counselors - one was the main dude who would always watch after us brats, and the other was a counselor who worked at an activity, like a lifeguard. That counselor just lived there and also kept us under control, but he would be away the rest of the day. It's almost like a married couple. The main counselor was the stay-at-home mom, while the other counselor would leave for work and come back at the end of the day like a dad.

The day would be filled with loads of activities. We would be awoken at 7:30 a.m. by the tape-recorded sound of a trumpet playing Reveille. Oh man, did that suck. Then after that comes a bunch of shit that I will leave out for it will make the article way too long. Basically, it's breakfast, three activities in a row until noon, then lunch, then three more activities until 5 (I think), then dinner, then free time, then evening activity, and finally bed at 9:10. Bed isn't really that early since everyone in the bunk stays up and hangs out. Now that you know the basics, on with the stories...

LOUSY DRUNKS

Counselors have some days off. Usually they came back to camp LOADED. Many times my counselors would stagger in and collapse on their bed, but yet somehow find the inner strength to reach up and turn their stereo on. Ever fall asleep to Pink Floyd? I did that when I was 10! I'm not bragging about it. I didn't find it cool. Sure, I learned about Pink Floyd, Phish, The Grateful Dead, and many other great bands at a very young age - and I guess I'm happy about that - but I would rather sleep in silence. It's just how I roll. One night my counselors were somehow both drunk and began drawing all over the bathroom stalls with marker! During that same summer, one of my counselors was drunk again and woke me up at three in the morning. He had his friend with him, who was also tipsy.

“Hey Fishman,” he said.

“W-What? What is it? What time is it?” I responded, half-asleep.

“Do that Australian accent.” You see, I did this Australian accent where I made fun of my other counselor, Jacob Appleby, who was Australian. It wasn't funny and my accent wasn't very good. It didn't merit being woken up at that ghastly hour.

“No. Leave me alone,” I explained to my counselor. “I'm tired.”

“Do it.”

“C'mon...”

“DO IT!”

“Oh man,” I bitched, as I sat up and prepared my horrific accent. “He's Appleby, the Australian Wonder. He's got a small penis and a big fun lovin' heart.” That was it. That was the whole fucking thing, except spoken with that accent. My counselor and his friend went nuts with laughter, saying how awesome I was. You can only be drunk to say that because what I said was not funny nor was I awesome.

DODGEBALL

I hated Dodgeball as a camper. There is nothing worse than playing campers vs. counselors Dodgeball. The counselors had this evil look in their eye during the game, because they knew this was the time they can hurt campers without getting into trouble. Man, did those balls hurt when they smashed into my body, especially the stomach. I would get the fucking wind knocked out of me. Even if I caught the ball, it wasn't worth it because my chest was beet red and stung like a bitch.

My worst memory from Dodgeball was when my age group and an older age group teamed up to play all of our counselors in Dodgeball. That's like 60 kids versus 12 counselors, I guess. I don't know. Anyway, we really thought that we would win because the counselors gave up their right to let their players back in if they catch the ball. We campers were still allowed that right. However, it didn't matter. The counselors tore us apart. We couldn't catch their throws! Their throws would bounce off four kids, knocking four of us out at a time! The screams...the horrible screams...I still wake up at night in a cold sweat, due to having a Dodgeball flashback of my brothers being pelted by those unforgiving red rubber balls. Soon, there was only one camper left. Can you take a guess who that last camper standing was?

Me.

I stood there as EVERY counselor had a dodgeball. I had nothing. I was dead. The counselors were all smirking and began to whisper their plan of attack to each other. All the older kids - who all hated me as dictated by the We Hate Fishman Doctrine of 1982 - were on the sidelines shouting, "You better catch this shit and let us back in, you faggot." "Don't choke, asshole." "Fucking catch it or you're dead!" The entire place was filled with the echoed shouts of "Fishman," "faggot," and "dead."

One counselor ran up to the line and rolled a ball at me. Please. This is the oldest trick in the book. They expected me to walk up to the slow moving ball and pick it up. Once I reached down, they would peg me into oblivion. I wasn't THAT stupid. Once they saw that I wasn't budging, they all just unleashed their dodgeballs. Did they hit me? Oh yeah. Every single one. Boom. I couldn't catch a single one because they all converged into me at once. The counselors celebrated their victory as the campers hung their heads low and left the gym. One older kid walked up to me, said "Good job, asshole," and then pushed me down.

THE BETRAYER

Who is the Betrayer? I will not mention his name. His name is vile and should not be uttered, like Voldemort from Harry Potter. Betrayer is a piece of shit who should be sucking cocks in Hell, the spineless worm.

He really didn't do anything bad, but to my bunk in 1994, he was worse than Benedict Arnold and Judas combined. What did he do? Betrayer left in the middle of camp. All this fucker would do was cry and moan about how much he hated camp...and it was the kid's second summer there! He obviously liked it enough last summer to come back! Why the hell did he return? Shit, he was kind of a dick, too. You can picture that the kid was a dick back home, but without mommy and daddy, Betrayer was a pussy. I still don't understand why he wanted to go home. We kept telling Betrayer to stay and at least ride the summer out, but the big hairy vagina was determined to leave by the halfway point of the summer - Visiting Day.

Every kid loves Visiting Day. You see your parents for the first time in a month and they bring a shitload of goodies with them. The most precious commodity was soda. The stuff was like crack to me. It never tasted so good and never will again. Even knock-off brands like Simply Soda tasted like elixir from the heavens. But on this Visiting Day, we all had to deal with Betrayer crying to his parents. The kid was WAILING. I was a crying bitch in camp, but I paled in comparison to what this kid sounded like.

Because I was apparently cursed by a witch doctor when I was born, I came down with a fever in the middle of that Visiting Day. It actually wasn't so bad. What better time to fall ill than when your family is around to comfort you? Plus, I had an entire room in the infirmary all to myself. The next morning, with my parents having left the previous night, I was visited by my bunkmates and counselors. They told me that the Betrayer left...but they were very angry. Even my counselors were pissed.

"Why are you so angry?" I asked.

"You didn't see what he looked like," my friend Ben said. "He was smiling in the backseat of his parents' car, hopping up and down." I suddenly realized why everyone was so mad at Betrayer - this kid was overjoyed to be rid of us. You see, your bunkmates should be like family, at least for that summer. Betrayer was our friend, but it really meant nothing to this douche. For example, imagine that you live in a house with four of your best friends. One friend moves out, but as he/she does, all they say is how glad they are to be moving out and away from your other three friends. All the good times you had with your friend - all the times you drank, all the road trips, all the times just watching TV - really meant nothing. We had that feeling. No one in the camp was mean to Betrayer and he wasn't homesick. He was just a piece of shit.

I actually saw him some years later. I was riding my bike to the local beach with my friends and we pass by these kids. They were really staring us down, but one of them looked familiar. I had to look at him for a while, but it was him: Betrayer. I was about to say hello, but he spoke first.

"What the hell are you looking at?" Betrayer said, jerking his head forward as if he was ready to fight. You're SUCH a big man, Betrayer. You couldn't even stay in a fucking sleep-away camp for 2 1/2 months without crying for mommy's breast milk. He didn't recognize me, but instead of explaining myself, I just shook my head in disgust. As I rode off, I heard Betrayer yell, "Hey wait! It's me!" He realized who I was, but I didn't want to turn around. He wasn't worth it. Fuck you, Betrayer.

BLUE RIDGE

Whenever I say this name, I cringe. Blue Ridge was the girl camp across the lake from Equinunk. As I said before, the girls at this camp were fucking mean. They were terrible females. I know a bunch of readers aren't from Long Island, but where I live, there is a term called Jewish American Princess, or JAP. I don't care if you're a JAP, just be a nice JAP. Every girl in Blue Ridge was a mean JAP. Every single one. E-V-E-R-Y S-I-N-G-L-E O-N-E.

"Yeah, but what about that one girl named-?"

NO!!! EVERY SINGLE ONE!!! I AM NOT FUCKING WITH YOU!!! The worst were the "socials." They would march my age group to some small shack that had ping-pong, two arcade games from circa 1982, some tables, and a counter with soda (limit one cup of soda per camper). Then they would march the girls from our age group in. It would take about a second for the awkwardness to set in. When I was 10-12, I didn't care about girls yet. Puberty didn't start setting in for me until age 13, but even then I wasn’t like, “I NEED TO GET LAID!” I didn’t give that much of a shit yet.

Meanwhile, the girls were still in their "every boy is gross" phase. They would give us the most disgusted of looks, like we were homeless crazies rubbing our dicks with celery. They would talk to maybe five boys. These were the boys who were either A) good at sports, B) gay, or C) the younger brother of a popular older camper or counselor. The worst were the gay kids. They weren't really gay, although I wouldn't be surprised if someone told me they were currently living in San Francisco with a hairstylist named Franco. These kids got all dressed up when going to these socials. I'm talking gel in hair, cologne, and sunglasses. Sure, one should look nice when trying to pick up women, but act your fucking age, you queers. The best day during one summer was when I called one out on it. This fruit, Craig, constantly looked in the mirror and fixed his hair. Then he would spend all day bragging about his sunglasses.

"Hey man," Craig said one day as we were walking somewhere. "Don't these sunglasses make me look like Snow?"

"Yeah," I responded. What kind of idiot would want to look like a white Reggae artist?

"You should dress up like this, Fishman. That's why no girls talk to you, but they talk to me."

"I'd rather look like this than be a narcissist."

"A what? What's that?"

"A narcissist is someone who is obsessed with their looks." I kept walking as Craig stopped in his tracks.

"...Fuck you..." Craig uttered. I smiled and felt good about myself. I may be a dick, but I refuse to have a metrosexual tell me how to dress. Especially if that metrosexual doesn't have pubes yet.

But did Blue Ridge girls like Craig? They sure did. They hated me though. If I was near one, they would move away. If I was waiting to talk to a friend because a Blue Ridge girl was talking to him, she would give me a dirty look, roll her eyes, and walk away. They didn't even want me breathing the same air as them! It really hurt. I still haven't recovered from how these girls treated me. I'm shy around women to this day mainly because of the Blue Ridge bitches. I want that place to burn down.

ASSISTANT CHIEF

Color War was a big deal in Equinunk. They split the entire camp into two teams: Red and Gray. Each team was led by a counselor who was named Chief. Below him were Assistant Chief, First Booster, Second Booster and that's it. I don't even know what the fuck a Booster is but I never questioned it. In each age group, there were also Chiefs and Assistant Chiefs. They don't really do anything. They are just the leader of the group of kids who are on their team. It's really more of a recognition thing. It's a big honor to be chosen as a Chief or an Assistant Chief. It means you're a good camper, good at sports, and the counselors like you (since they are the ones who choose the Chiefs and Assistant Chiefs). It basically means you're better than the other campers.

I was never a Chief or an Assistant Chief. I could totally understand why for the first three years. I was a crying bitch. It's true - I cried a lot in sleep-away camp. I'm not proud of it. I was young, I was a wuss, and I sucked at everything. But during my last summer, things were different. The opening stages of puberty kicked in and I was basically a changed kid. I looked the same, but I was better at sports, I rolled with jokes, and most of all, I stopped crying. I never knew why I cried so much the previous summers! It all seemed so ridiculous to me. Everyone kept going, "Fishman, you used to be a pussy, but now you're okay. What happened?" I honestly didn't know, although now I realize that it was the beginning of puberty. Because of all of this, I was hoping that I would be at least Assistant Chief during Color War (I ruled Chief out for some stupid reason).

That whole summer, I dreamed of being Assistant Chief, especially since I decided that it would to be my last summer at Equinunk (puberty also made me realize that I wanted a job next summer). I really just wanted to finally have some respect. In school, no one ever clapped for me after I did presentations. At home, my sister was the smart one. For once, I just wanted to earn some fucking recognition. As summer drew to a close and Color War was upon the camp, campers who I never really knew wanted me to be Assistant Chief. I was very honored. I really tried to be the best camper ever. I played my ass off at sports, I was well-behaved, and I never, ever cried or complained.

Color War broke in an amazing fashion. A plane flew over the camp, dropping flyers (fliers?). The flyers list the teams, who are Chiefs and Assistant Chiefs, and all that jazz. We grabbed the flyers, but nothing was on them. It was a hoax. As we sadly wandered back to the bunks, we heard campers shouting out, "It's on our beds! It's on our beds!" That shifty camp staff of ours. When every camper ran out to see the plane, the counselors snuck in and placed the real flyers on everyone's bed. I grabbed mine, looked it over, and made the discovery.

I was not Assistant Chief. I was not anything. I was just a camper on the Gray team. I stood there as this heat swelled up in my stomach. I kept reading the flyer over and over. It had to be a mistake! I was a great camper all summer...and I don't get shit? I get nothing? I went up to a counselor and asked why I was snubbed, and he said, "It came down to you and another kid for the last spot...and we went with him. Sorry Fishman." He walked away, leaving me standing in a pool of defeat.

Then it happened. I couldn't control the feeling in my gut anymore. I cried. But before you call me a vagina, let me explain. This cry was not a little kid cry, like "Ow, I scraped my knee" or "Douglas is being mean to me." This was a grown-up cry. This was how Boston residents cried when the Red Sox lost to the Mets in 1986. Yet, I wasn't really crying about not being Assistant Chief.

The snub was probably the most defining moment of my life and I am being completely serious. There really isn't any joking in this story. It's just a monumental moment in the story of life that I want to share. It wasn't so much that I was mad about being snubbed, it was just that for the first time in my life, I realized that I was a loser. All of my life I was picked on, disliked by girls, and did nerdy things, but I really didn't consider myself a loser. I thought that I was just a dumb kid and I would eventually grow out of it. But there I was - a different person who finally stopped being such a geek, trying so hard the entire summer - and I still lost.

And I was crying because I knew that would never change. I realized that no matter how hard I tried at anything, I would still lose. It really was a spiritual moment. I could actually picture my own future and I sensed that I would be on the losing end of everything until the day I die. People discover themselves by going on a road trip with friends after high school or backpacking through Europe after college. I never needed to do all of those things. I discovered myself at age 13 at Camp Equinunk...and what I discovered sucked. This is just the role that I have been given, but I have accepted it.

My self-discovery was indeed correct. Since then, my life has not really been anything to brag about. My grades were terrible in high school and I never had a girlfriend there. I couldn't get laid to save my life in college, and after college, I couldn't find a job. One job that I really wanted came down to me and another person. Clearly, they went with the other person and I was not surprised. You may be saying, "Fishman, you can't look at life like that. It's all in your head and you're putting yourself down. You were just snubbed some dumb honor at a sleep-away camp." You're right, but it has nothing to do with not being Assistant Chief. I know it's a lame honor, but my name not being on that piece of paper really represented what my life would be. I really think some higher power or force spoke to me that day, and it said, "Your life is not special. There will be winners in this world, Matthew Fishman, but you will not be one of them." So far in the 10 years after that moment in the summer of 1995, it was right.

Huh. I think I'll go kill myself.

Questions? Comments? Don’t these sunglasses make me look like Snow? E-mail Fishman347@yahoo.com